The return of matchmakers: Why daters are swiping left on the apps and embracing a human touch
Third People Generations, Background Often For Having And Any To To Without Find A 'blind,' A Turned Context Partner, Party Have Or Suitable
Ned Coughlan was fed up of traditional dating when he decided to hand over the reins to someone else in his search for love.
The 52-year-old welder from Co Limerick, spotted an ad for a matchmaker in his local paper, and in a fit of YOLO, picked up the phone.
“I was half afraid,’ Ned admits. ‘I was definitely nervous, but I was also tired of hanging around waiting to meet the right person. I’m a quiet guy, you see. I’d go to town and have a few pints with the lads, but it’s hard to get talking to women, especially in the countryside.”
After the initial adrenaline of signing up, fate intervened, and Ned got sick with swine flu and pneumonia. He spent 14 weeks in hospital, but he was more determined than ever to find Ms Right-for-him once he got well.
“I had a few dates and they went well,” Ned explains. “It was interesting not seeing pictures ahead of the dates, but that didn’t bother me because most people who sign up to matchmaking are genuinely looking to meet someone and...” he chuckles, “well, nobody can really be that bad, can they?”
Ned was almost giving up hope when Covid struck. “I got a call from the matchmaker telling me I had a phone date on the Saturday night at 8pm, and I thought feck it, I’ve nothing to lose.”
“We stayed on the phone for four hours and forty minutes,” Ned relays with pride.
“We couldn’t meet because of Covid. She lived an hour away, but we talked every single day for three months.”
Three years later, the couple is still going strong and they are even making plans for their future together.
In the age of rom-coms, Disney indoctrination and high expectations, a match for both suitability and romantic love, can be a challenge.
Advertising and social media constantly bleat about beauty standards and the perfect lives to which we should aspire. How these partnerships 'should' look, versus the reality of trying to meet someone to share your life with, can put a lot of pressure on the process.
But for generations, people have turned to a third party to find a suitable partner, often 'blind,' and without having any background or context.
In Jewish tradition, rabbis and other trusted figures acted as . In Japan, it was a or a middle person who scoured for potential matches. In Korea, families flocked to a for help with aligning romantic interests.
Here, we have what’s called ‘ ’ who parades us around after mass telling us to "stand up straight because so and so’s son is back from America with a ‘big job’ and sure, you’re not getting any younger, are you pet?"
Of course, the eligibility of an individual in times gone by was often far more pragmatic than simply finding the one to give your last Rolo to. It was about securing land, strengthening farms and looking for wider family synergy to ensure the next generation would thrive.
Dating differs when it comes to cultures, but also settings. For those like Ned, who live in rural environs, dating may not look the same as it does to city-centre dwellers. But even a busy dating life doesn’t guarantee success.
“After a few years of being on and off the apps, I'm exhausted," admits 37-year-old Sallyanne, who gave up screen swiping to find 'the one' after being put off by “soul-destroying checklists”.
“Relying on algorithms can mean the parade of available suitors is very prescriptive. One guy, before we’d even gone on a date, was demanding to know my relationship triggers, my view on having kids, my mental health history, my phobias,” says Sallyanne.
“I know it’s supposed to be a more efficient way to meet people, but I felt like some people have a bespoke person they are determined to find, and if I wasn’t it, there was no room for manoeuvre. It was a case of,... next!’
Feargal Harrington knows what it’s like to have his love life managed. 15 years ago, his brother Eoin, a singer-songwriter, told him that he had a friend he thought it would be perfect for Feargal. Eoin did a bit of matchmaking and the couple, Rena and Feargal have been together ever since.
Just six months into their relationship, Feargal and Rena decided to set up a matchmaking business.
“It was around the time of the recession, Feargal explains.
“I was working in property and Rena was working in radio, but we’d been hearing friends of ours say it was extremely hard to meet genuine people. Of course, online dating was an option back then too, but the pool was very large and quite exposing and that doesn’t suit everyone. We decided to build the most private matchmaking service that we could. One that people could trust. We left our jobs, opened an office over Café En Seine in Dublin, and that’s when Intro was born.
Intro matchmaking is a service for which you pay a subscription (in the region of one thousand euro) and you are guaranteed at least five dates.
“Nobody gets to see the surname, photo or phone number,” says Feargal, who matched welder Ned to his date three years ago.
“We don’t put anything online. We organise everyone's dates from start to finish, up to 100 a week and verify identity in advance. We put a lot of time into matching people based on the information given to us in a nuanced way that algorithms can’t. We pick up on quirks and traits we feel are compatible with another. We are available 24/7 for debriefs or questions. It’s a very personal touch.”
So what do people come looking for when they reach out to a matchmaker?
“Our books contain people from 20 years of age, to 93,” Feargal explains.
”We organise hundreds of dates every week and of course, people have things they want or don’t want in a partner. But it’s our job to manage those expectations too. Sometimes we get really off-beat demands, and because people are paying for the service, they feel entitled to have those demands met. But we also deal in reality. We offer a frank approach based around three major things; Travel, age and education. We also encourage people to cast the net wider location-wise.”
“With the apps, I think there is definitely a place for them, but they also seem to kill confidence levels. I think they can make people cynical and paranoid. Spending three hours a night for two years on admin chat, and then having fifteen coffee dates a week while trying to make an important judgement call whether you’d like to spend your life with them or not, doesn’t sound like a lot of fun to me.”